Shelter from the Storm
by perfectvelvet
Summary: A routine supply run turns dangerous as Daryl and Carol find themselves battling against Mother Nature ... but the storm brewing within their shelter might be more intense than the one raging outside. Rated M. Daryl/Carol.
1. Chapter 1

**Welcome, welcome to my first contribution to the Walking Dead fandom. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it!**

**This is an adventure/romance of the Daryl/Carol variety. It's rated a strong M for language, sex, and violence (against walkers - but some mention of past abuse). Please hit your back button if any of the aforementioned is going to offend you.**

**Disclaimer: The characters and universe herein were created by Robert Kirkman et al. The series is produced by AMC and other corporations. I don't own anything, and no infringement is intended.**

**Big thanks to my beta reader definitelywalkerbait - she is an excellent writer and a great cheerleader. Having her as a sounding board made this a lot more fun to write!**

**Now without further ado...**

_Shelter from the Storm  
__Chapter 1__  
_

"Come on, Carol; daylight's burnin'."

"Just a minute."

Daryl rolled his eyes as he readjusted the crossbow in his arms. Women. If it was him, he would've wiped the whole shelf into his bag and been done with it. _Probably why she came along in the first place_, he thought. He didn't know the first thing about weddings.

Glenn had proposed to his girl with a walker's ring, and now the prison was all abuzz with wedding planning. It was stupid if anyone asked him, which nobody did. What the hell kind of life could you have if the dead were walking the earth? And what good was 'til death do you part' when you weren't likely to live another year?

To him, it was pointless. But Rick said a wedding would boost morale, and with those pansy-ass Woodbury people with their little tea parties and barbecues, he really wanted them to feel at home. Daryl thought they were delusional; Rick saw them as their future. As usual, Rick won, and Daryl offered to pick up whatever they needed for the party – to spend some time away from the chatter more than anything. Maggie prepared a list of supplies, and Carol damn near demanded to go with him on the run. Whatever. She wasn't a thorn in his side like most people – more of a maddening itch that just wouldn't go away.

Their group hadn't collected supplies this far north before; the road traversed a densely wooded area, and the walkers often came from that direction. He, Rick, Tyreese, and Michonne had scouted the area over the past month, finding a few small towns along the way and marking them on a map if they looked promising. The first few runs had proven fruitful, but each time they cleaned out an area, they had to go farther away the next time.

In happier times, Livingston - an ironic name if he'd ever heard one - maintained a population of 73 according to the wooden sign they'd past on their way into town. It was forty minutes off the main highway and basically consisted of one gravel-coated street flanked by a bar, bank, general store, church, and meeting hall. All of the houses could be reached by traveling down single lane dirt roads that branched off of the main street. On the north side of the road, the buildings were backed by a thick area of trees. The south side also had some woodland that cut sharply to a ravine, farmland nestled at the bottom.

Since the area was unexplored and most of the places they had stopped hadn't been picked over, he figured the town would be teeming with walkers. He gazed up and down the road again, standing in the doorless entryway to the general store. Nothing. No people, no animals, and no walkers.

It was damn near eerie.

"Still got a few things left on my list," Carol said, approaching him with a backpack full of supplies, "but I'm pleased with what I found here."

"The real list or Maggie's hair-brained idea of necessities?"

"You may not care about the wedding, but it means a lot to a lot of people, especially Maggie."

He pulled a face and grabbed her backpack. "Did you find any cigarettes?"

"No."

"Oh yeah?" He pointed over her shoulder to the shelves behind the cash register. "Then what's that box over there?" An entire carton of smokes with his name on it, he reckoned. He slid past her and hopped over the counter. It had been a while since he'd had a cigarette, even longer since he'd had a really stiff drink. Apparently looters were more concerned with alcohol than bullets; they'd found plenty of ammunition on their trek north, but even Livingston's bar had been completely raided of liquor. He reached for the carton of Marlboro Reds, nearly salivating with anticipation, and opened the end. Empty. "Shit."

Carol put the backpack on the counter and rustled through it, pulling out a crumpled package of Newport Mediums. She offered him one of the two cigarettes still inside. "Found this."

"Menthol? Hell no." He spun the backpack around to him. "What else do you have in here?"

"Most everything from the list."

"Yeah, you said that already. What exactly is missin'?"

She laid the paper on the counter, smoothing out the folds. "Couldn't find any oatmeal, water, kids' books, extra t-shirts, or lingerie."

"Lingerie? What the hell do we need lingerie for?"

"I thought it might make their weddin' night special."

"Ain't nothin' Glenn hasn't seen before."

"Yeah, but…" She shrugged a little, eyes downcast. "It should be special."

He was about to tell her how ridiculous she sounded, but movement outside of the store caught his eye. "Shit. Walkers." He lifted his crossbow and headed toward the store front as Carol withdrew the pistol from her belt holster.

"Was wonderin' when we'd see any."

"Aw, fuck..." He nodded toward the west. "It's a fuckin' herd."

She sidled up behind him to look out the long window. A massive pack of walkers shambled down the road that dissected the town. "There's gotta be at least fifty of 'em."

"Fuck," he said again. The herd came from the direction of their truck. A couple of walkers lingered by the vehicle, but most of them continued on their path. "Ain't no way to get past 'em. Gonna have to wait 'em out."

"That could take hours. Days."

"Ya got a better idea?" She said nothing, of course, and crouched down on the dusty floor. He chewed on his bottom lip. "Didn't mean to snap at ya."

She waved off his apology. "Just want to make it back in time for the weddin'."

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes again.

* * *

Time passed slowly, although without watches and clocks, there was no concept of it anymore. Just day and night. While it was still day, clouds had moved in, obscuring the sunlight and casting a gloomy grey over the area. Then the rain came, first a gentle trickle then a steady pour. The sky grew darker, making it harder to see the walkers passing through town.

Carol sat in silence while Daryl maintained vigil at the window, making sure the walkers kept on walking and didn't deviate from their relatively straight path. She knew the drill and didn't complain. She was just happy to get out of the prison.

She enjoyed her roles as teacher, chef, and laundress. But sometimes she wanted more. This run was the perfect opportunity to practice her ever-developing combat skills. It was with Daryl, who she trusted more than anyone at the prison – except when it came to wedding supplies, which was another reason she was happy to go. He probably would have taken one look at the list, declared it frivolous (or some colorful synonym), and thrown it out.

She wanted a chance to prove that she was more than a stereotypical woman and could do more than a stereotypical woman's work. She was strong with a knife, could use a rifle and a hand gun, and had been learning about edible and medicinal plants, thanks to a book Daryl had retrieved a few months back. She was more valuable than people thought, and she was tired of being underestimated.

She glanced up at Daryl and smiled at him, although his attention was focused elsewhere. He never underestimated her. He knew she was strong, knew she could fight. He wouldn't have taken her on this run, alone, if he thought she would be a burden. She wasn't going to let him down. So she sat quietly and waited, focused on the sounds that the herd made as it moved through town, hearing the rain slap the ground as it fell, listening for anything that didn't fit.

And that's when she heard it. Something slight and almost imperceptible over the noise, like a ticking or chittering. Not a walker sound. An animal?

Daryl heard it too. His body tensed, finger nearing the trigger of his crossbow. Carol readied her pistol and stood. Her heart hammered in her chest with apprehension. Whatever it was, it was getting closer. Daryl brought up his crossbow and took aim at the doorway.

It took them a moment to realize the sound was coming from a raccoon which had tentatively sought refuge from the rain inside the store. Daryl silenced it with a perfectly placed shot to the head.

But they weren't the only ones to hear the animal – or maybe they were, and it was the smell of death that drew them near. Several of the passing walkers shifted their bodies to face the store and started toward the fresh kill.

"Shit."

Carol jerked her head away from the window. "Guess we'll be taking the back door."

"Go."

She hoisted the backpack over her shoulder, securing her gun back in its holster, and headed for the rear of the store. Daryl followed, pausing only long enough to fire an arrow into the hazy eye of a walker who had breached the entrance.

Carol yanked the door open and found herself face to face with a walker. She let out a yelp, instinctively kicking her left foot into its chest, and dropped to her knees. Daryl's arrow flew overhead and landed in the walker's skull. He pulled her up then handed her a knife. "Move." Five walkers now crowded the front entrance with more trying to shove through.

The rain assaulted them the moment they stepped outside. It was coming down harder now, drenching them within seconds. Carol blinked through the rain that stung her eyes. Visibility was mediocre, but there was no mistaking the human forms of the living dead that stumbled toward them. "Daryl!" She gestured to the oncoming group of walkers with the tip of her blade. Apparently the herd was bigger than they initially thought, or some of them had broken off and gone behind the stores instead of down the road. Either way, there were at least ten headed their way, and they had taken notice of them.

"Run."

Together they raced away from the store, sliding across grass and mud and fallen leaves. Carol dodged branches as she ran, her outstretched hand pushing them away and helping to block the rain. She could hear Daryl behind her, muttering curses and occasionally firing an arrow.

A flash of lightning illuminated her path for an instant, and she cried out as she nearly stumbled into a walker. She thrust her knife into its face and kicked it away to remove the weapon. She couldn't see any others, but she could hear them, even over the rain. The moaning and snarling sent her adrenaline into overdrive.

They had to get out of here.

Every step deeper into the forest was another step toward danger and away from safety. Even if it hadn't been raining, the forest here was so thick that most light wouldn't get through the trees on a bright day. She'd found a kerosene lantern in the store, but it didn't do them any good without fuel, and there wasn't time to stop and fix it up. They were truly running blind.

Without warning, Carol lost her footing and starting slipping backwards, but instead of the expected thud on the ground, she felt herself continue to fall. The shock and immediacy of it took her breath away, and she reached out to Daryl as she slid.

"Gotcha."

She squinted through the rain to see him, belly to the ground, gripping her arm as she dangled from ... what was this? She chanced a look down and saw nothing but blackness.

"The ravine," he said as if he could read her mind. "It drops about twenty feet."

"Shit." She swung her other arm up and thrust her knife into the ground for support. She was glad she hadn't dropped it.

"Can ya stand on anything? Climb your way up while I pull?"

She relaxed her legs and carefully searched for secure footing. The cliff was actually slanted, and she felt a lot of tree roots, but they were slippery from the rain and mud. "No, the—_Daryl_!"

A walker lunged forward, hands ready to tear into flesh. Daryl pitched to his side and lifted a leg up, catching the walker in the groin and hoisting it over the ravine. She could barely make out the outlines of three other walkers closing in on their position. Daryl rolled onto his stomach again and grabbed her arm with both hands. "Fuck. You gotta get up _now_."

"Not enough time." She pulled her knife out of the ground. "See you at the bottom."

For a moment, she thought fear might have flickered across his face. For himself or for her, it didn't matter; she was terrified enough for both of them. "You live through this, I'm gonna kick your ass."

"Lookin' forward to it."

And with that, he let go.

**End of chapter 1**

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	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks for all of the positive feedback so far! I'm excited to share the next chapter with you - let me know what you think!**

******Disclaimer: The characters and universe herein were created by Robert Kirkman et al. The series is produced by AMC and other corporations. I don't own anything, and no infringement is intended.**

_Shelter from the Storm_  
_Chapter 2_

Carol gasped at the sudden plunge then landed on her back and started sliding haphazardly down the cliff. Down, down, down, gaining speed as she went. Mud flew into her nostrils and eyes, obscuring her vision even more than before. Faster, like a roller coaster from hell. Something sharp sliced into her back, and she cried out in pain. Her foot caught on a root, flipping her onto her stomach and somersaulting her the rest of the way down.

She landed on her ass in a muddy pile of rocks. Pain ripped through her, and she groaned, grabbing her hip. It wasn't a pretty ride down, but she was alive.

A guttural growl interrupted the assessment of her well-being, and she thrust her knife – oh, thank God, she hadn't lost it on the way down – into the flesh of a walker's leg. She pulled it back out and stumbled to her feet, backing away. Only stunned by her attack, the walker lurched again, and she charged, gripping the handle with both hands and sinking the blade into an eye socket. The walker fell to the ground and she on top of it.

Panting for breath, she glanced around for other immediate dangers and found none. Her back hurt like hell, and she reached around, feeling a gash in her shirt and her skin. The antibiotic ointment she found at the store would help.

That was when she realized her backpack was gone.

"Dammit," she muttered. It must have gotten stuck on something on the way down. She didn't even remember losing it.

A whoosh caught her attention, and Daryl rolled into the mud, coming to an abrupt stop on his back. "Motherfucker!"

"Are you okay?" she asked, helping him to his feet.

"Yeah. _Shit_." He gripped his right bicep, wincing in pain. When he pulled his hand away, blood trickled down, forging a red path across his dirty arm. "It ain't a walker scratch. Somethin' scraped me on that damn cliff."

"Same here."

"Where at?"

"My back."

"Found bandages at the general store, didn't ya? I'll patch it up. Where's the pack?"

She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak. Without the backpack and the supplies inside, the entire run had been for nothing.

While his first inclination may have been to yell at her – and she certainly expected it – he didn't raise his voice at all. "Well, we're alive. That's more important than some fake flowers and shitty cigarettes." Carol suppressed a grin. "But we gotta find shelter. Too many damn walkers with that herd moving through. Come on."

* * *

They managed to make it out of the forest and into a clearing. The rain had let up significantly, and the clouds were dissipating. The last remnants of daylight provided them with enough light to see a two-story farmhouse looming in the distance. They picked up their pace and jogged through tall grasses to the front door.

It had been a beautiful house at one time, before the world went to shit. A deep wrap-around porch made it look inviting, the kind of place where large families would chat as they sipped lemonade on a hot summer day. The black shutters on each window provided a stark contrast to the white paint. But as they got closer, they noticed the paint chipping away, shutters hanging from one hinge, the rocking chair on the porch creaking with each gust of wind. The entire property had fallen into disrepair.

In fact, it kind of reminded Daryl of Hershel's farm before it burned to the ground. One glance at Carol and the slight tremor in her chin, and he knew it had reminded her too. Thankfully it didn't have a barn full of walkers and a missing little girl.

He crept up the front stairs to the porch, crossbow at the ready. Carol stood behind him, knife drawn. He nodded toward the door, and she opened it before stepping aside to let him in. He made a quick assessment, aiming at each doorway, looking for any signs of life – or death.

It smelled musty, and he stifled a sneeze. Whoever had lived here had packed up and left long ago. The house was a lot smaller than it looked from the outside. He had walked into a tiny sitting room with a couple of chairs and an upright piano. The kitchen was situated to the right of the door, the window overlooking the farmland. Straight ahead were two doors and next to them an oak staircase. On his left was a floral carpeted living room.

He scanned the kitchen, but it was empty. Carol gestured to the living room, and he walked to her. In the center of the room was a rocking chair, its back to the doorway where they stood.

The chair was occupied.

He rounded the chair, back to the wall, until he reached the far corner and could face whoever – or whatever – sat there.

It was an elderly man, but he had been dead for months. He didn't even smell anymore. A gaping hole pierced his left temple, and there was a revolver on the floor. Daryl shook his head to convey there wasn't a threat and lowered his weapon.

They checked the rest of the house but didn't find anything out of the ordinary. By now the rain had almost completely stopped, and the world was quiet again. Daryl found towels in the downstairs bathroom, and they dried themselves off before separating to look for food and other supplies.

Carol headed upstairs, hoping to find something worthwhile. She was still upset about losing the backpack, but perhaps she could locate things here. She started in the first room at the top of the stairs. It was a small sewing room. The machine sat on a table against the wall. Her eyes lit up when she didn't see a power cord. It was a treadle machine and didn't need any electricity, only human power.

"Perfect," she said to herself, tracing her fingers across the dusty wheel. If they could get the truck down here, they could take this back to the prison and stitch up tears in clothing, maybe tailor some of the older children's clothes to fit the younger ones. If they could find fabric, they could make entirely new outfits. She had some experience with the machine; she used to repair her own clothing following one of her husband's drunken attacks. It felt like forever ago. She wasn't sure if she could still do it or if she was too out of practice.

Only one way to find out.

She took off her tank top, wincing as the wet fabric rubbed against her wounded skin. The rock that had scraped her had ripped through the shirt as well and left a long tear from hem to hem. She could probably sew it, but it would be easier to scrap and use for rags. Maybe there was another shirt in the house she could take.

"Hey, Carol, I found—"

She stiffened at the sound of Daryl's voice and held the tattered shirt to her chest. Her back was to him, and she was wearing a bra, but she preferred to maintain some decency. "Yes?" She didn't receive a response and glanced at him over her shoulder. His eyes were fixed on her back, an unreadable look on his face. She wasn't sure why; if anyone understood, it was him.

She felt him move closer to her, felt a hand hover over an old scar that went from her shoulder blade to the middle of her spine. "Ed?" he asked, voice thick with anger.

She nodded. Her husband had given her more emotional scars than physical, but nobody could see those. He met his end within two months of their escape from Atlanta but had kept her alive and safe until that point. It was the only nice thing he ever did for her.

She could feel Daryl's eyes on her, taking in all of the faded lines. She was glad she couldn't see them without a mirror. Daryl had some scars of his own, caused by his father, and she knew he was thinking about his own abuse as he looked at the remnants of hers.

"You needed somethin'?" she asked, bringing them both back to the present. No sense in thinking about the past any longer.

"Found this." He held a small container of Neosporin in her line of vision. "Ya mind?"

She shook her head, and his hands touched her, spreading the cream across her open wound. She sucked in a breath. This felt too intimate for him, for her. It had been a long time since she'd been touched by a gentle hand, and while her first inclination was to make a joke of it, she couldn't find the words. Her eyelids fluttered closed as she savored the contact just a little longer. "Better now, thanks." Despite the dismissal, his hand lingered at the small of her back, feather-light on her skin.

"Wait here." He disappeared, only to return moments later with something bunched up in his fist. "This should fit ya." Then he left again.

She looked at the white tank top he had hung on the chair and smiled.

* * *

Something wasn't right.

Daryl looked out the windows in the kitchen. There were a couple of walkers in the field, but he wasn't interested in them. They weren't close enough to be a threat.

What bothered him was the sky. The clouds had dissipated from the earlier rain, but there was a new wall of black clouds coming in from the west. While he had no degree in meteorology – no degree period – he knew enough about the weather to know things were going to get worse before they got better.

Carol appeared beside him with an empty duffel bag. "Found this in a closet. Figured we could load it up when we leave for the truck. Plenty of clothes upstairs. That sewing machine. Come back and get the rest some other time."

"Ain't goin' nowhere for a while," he said, eyes still focused outside. The sky was beginning to take on a greenish hue.

"That's fine. At least we'll get to sleep in a real bed tonight."

"Kitchen's empty. Ya find any food?" He opened the window and frowned.

"No. What are you doing?"

He held up a hand to silence her. Silence. _That_ was the problem. There wasn't a sound to be heard outside – not a bird, not the rustling of grass, not the creaky rocking chair. It was completely silent.

"Daryl?"

The wind picked up again, pushing hard against the house. There was a low grumble like a train speeding along a track. The sky darkened quickly, and the rain returned with a surreal strength and intensity. "Fuck. _Really_?" He looked at Carol. "This just ain't our damn day."

"What's wrong?"

"Tornado."

"What?"

He moved past her and opened the door into the bathroom. It was the only room in the house without a window, but it was too small for both of them to fit inside. "Shit."

"Old house like this? Gotta be a storm cellar outside."

Damn, why hadn't he thought of that? "Let's go."

"Wait." She ran up the stairs and disappeared around the corner.

If she was grabbing that sewing machine, he was going to knock her on her ass. He opened the screen door at the front of the house, and it immediately slammed shut from the force of the wind. This was not good. "Ca—"

"Here," she said breathlessly, the duffel bag looking fuller than it had been before she went upstairs. "Ready."

Daryl opened the door again and held on tightly as she stepped outside. He followed and was greeted with a gust of wind that nearly pushed him over. Giant balls of hail pelted the ground along with fat raindrops moving horizontally. _There better be a fuckin' storm cellar out here_, he thought as he grabbed Carol's arm and thrust both of them down the stairs and into the open air.

They ran with the wind and took cover on the other side of the house, the walls blocking most of the gusts. Carol pointed to a small hill that sat thirty feet away. He wasn't sure why until he saw it: a slanted doorway tucked between two butterfly bushes. They made their way to the cellar, slammed by rain and hail. Daryl lifted the door, and Carol ducked inside, knife first. Once he was in, he slid the bolt locks in place, and the room went dark.

Carol was at the bottom of the stairs as he came up behind her. She had noticed a kerosene lantern hanging off a post on her right before Daryl closed them inside, and she turned up the wick, illuminating the room.

"Holy shit," he muttered, eyes wide. "We just hit the jackpot."

The residents had apparently been using the storm cellar as a root cellar, and while there weren't any picked vegetables inside, there were long shelves along one wall, filled with glass jars, aluminum cans, boxes, bottles... _Food_ – and lots of it.

Daryl walked along the wall to admire their inadvertent discovery. Beans, coffee, tomatoes, pickles, apple sauce, cranberries, okra, oats, noodles, tuna, bottled water: the list went on and on. He cracked a smile, the first one all day. They would eat like kings tonight.

His eyes fell on the shelving unit under the window. Rows and rows of wine bottles. He would've preferred beer or whiskey or really anything else – but alcohol was alcohol: it got you drunk if you consumed enough of it. He grabbed a bottle of merlot. Better than nothing. Using his utility knife, he peeled away the neck wrapping, popped the cork, and took a good, long pull from the bottle.

He turned to Carol. She was still standing at the foot of the stairs, shivering. Shit, he'd forgotten she was claustrophobic. A little eight-by-twelve room was going to drive her insane. "Here." He brought the bottle to her. After looking at the label, she took a drink and handed it back.

"Thanks."

The doors began to rattle, gently at first then with more force. He was sure they'd hold; otherwise this would be the shittiest storm cellar in all of Georgia. Carol stepped closer to him, looking up the stairs, arms wrapped around her body. "Storm's passin' over. Shouldn't be long."

She continued to shiver, and he almost put an arm around her. Almost. It would have been to keep her warm, or at least that's what he told himself. No need to make things any more complicated than they already were.

The roaring sound quieted, the doors slowed their vibrations, and soon the only things they heard were the rain and thunder. "See? It's nothin'."

She nodded but continued shaking. He noticed water dripping from her skin, forming a puddle on the cement floor. Maybe she hadn't been shivering from fear after all. It was cool in the cellar, and they were both soaked.

"We gotta get out of these clothes."

"Are you making a pass at me?" she asked, a hint of a smile on her lips. Before he had a chance to rebuff her, she picked up the duffel bag she had left by the stairs and unzipped it. Inside she had packed several quilts.

He looked at her curiously and let out a slight chuckle. When did she become so survival-savvy? And why the hell didn't he think of these things? He removed a solid red blanket from the bag, leaving her with the one decorated with purple and cream-colored stars. "Thanks."

"Turn around," she said, hands already working to unbutton her jeans.

He did as he was instructed and stripped naked as well. He hadn't realized how cold he was until the air touched his skin. Goosebumps popped up instantly, and he rushed to undress. The quilt was a little short after he had wrapped it around his shoulders, but it was a hell of a lot warmer than his wet pants and vest.

"Okay," she said a few moments later, and he turned to face her. She'd figured out a way to somehow wrap her blanket around herself like a dress, leaving her shoulders bare but her feet covered. She pulled a third quilt from the bag, this one with an argyle print, and spread it out on the floor. "It's not much, but..."

He shook his head. "Ya did good. Real good."

She beamed at the praise. "Thanks."

The moment passed, and the awkward reality of the situation settled in. They were naked in a storm cellar, a tornado outside and a hell of a lot of alcohol inside. Safe but exposed – a lot more exposed than he would have liked.

Of all of the people to be stuck with, it had to be Carol. What did she see in him? Why did she insist on complimenting him and teasing him and getting to know him when he'd done nothing to deserve such attention? It was infuriating, but at the same time it fascinated him. Women had always been an enigma, so much so that he hadn't had much to do with them for his entire life. His brother had been a love 'em and leave 'em kind of guy; Daryl had never even gotten to love part. He'd never really thought about it and so had lived his life as a loner, content to let life pass him by without taking time to enjoy it.

But sometimes, like now, he caught himself looking at Carol a little too long, some unknown emotion bubbling up to the surface. He wasn't sure what it was, wasn't sure he even wanted to know. But there was something about her that defied all logic and reason, something he felt deep in his core, something that made him wonder what he had been missing and if she could help him find it.

He averted his gaze, pushing the inappropriate thoughts out of his mind, and focused on the food shelves. "Hungry?"

**End of chapter 2  
**

**Writers thrive on feedback - and I'd love to hear yours!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks for your reviews! Here's a short chapter 3.  
**

******Disclaimer: The characters and universe herein were created by Robert Kirkman et al. The series is produced by AMC and other corporations. I don't own anything, and no infringement is intended.**

_Shelter from the Storm_  
_Chapter 3_

They dined on peanut butter, stale crackers, canned peaches, and black beans. Without utensils, it wasn't pretty, but they were past the point of manners. They hadn't eaten since breakfast, their ration packs still in their temporarily abandoned truck back in Livingston. Well, assuming the tornado hadn't devoured it.

Much of the time was spent without speaking as they were too preoccupied with eating and drinking to carry on a conversation. But unlike their usual meals shared in silence, this one was awkward. Any time Carol happened to look his way, Daryl was always focused on something else, like he'd been caught staring and didn't want to get caught again. She figured it had something to do with their respective states of undress; she knew she was bothered by it.

Her mind drifted to Glenn and Maggie's wedding. While searching the bedrooms upstairs, Carol had come across a perfectly preserved veil. The dress was missing, but they'd already found something appropriate on a prior run so it didn't matter. The bride looked lovely in blood-stained jeans; she was going to be a knock-out when she was in something clean.

They weren't likely to have the wedding until she and Daryl returned, but she wasn't sure when that would be. If the herd was still passing through, or had become completely distracted by the dead raccoon in the general store, their truck might not be reachable. Maybe they'd get lucky, and the tornado would carry all of the undead away. If not, and their truck was indeed a lost cause, they could walk back to the prison, but it was dangerous and they wouldn't be able to bring any of the food or supplies they had found. More than likely, they would spend the night in the cellar and head out at first light. If all went well, they would be home by lunch.

_Home._ Who would have thought they'd consider a prison to be their home?

She brought the wine bottle to her lips and discovered it was empty. Did they really drink the whole thing? There was a second bottle at her side, but she wasn't sure she had the coordination to open it. She felt warm and a little sleepy, still sober enough to know what was happening but tipsy enough to not give it a second thought. The wine had definitely helped take her mind off the size of the room.

Daryl offered her the last cracker, and when she turned it down, he popped it in his mouth. "You want anything else?" he asked, words muffled by the food.

"No." Her belly ached; they had eaten more than they were used to getting.

"Suit yourself." He used his utility knife to remove some more peanut butter from the jar, which he swiped off with a finger and put into his mouth.

She grinned at his method, but his attention was on the cellar doors. She was glad they had held. If they could withstand the force of a storm, they could certainly protect them from any walkers who happened to pass by. They wouldn't be able to sleep in a bed, but they _would_ be able to sleep.

"Hand me that bottle, will ya?" She passed the wine to him, and he opened it, taking a drink. "It's a good thing we ended up in here instead of out there. Coulda gotten trapped in that storm out there on the highway. No shelter."

"Guess it's a good thing that herd was passin' through."

"I wouldn't go that far."

Carol laughed. "Well, we certainly got lucky with our find. We can load up the truck, bring all this food back to the prison. If the house is still standing, we can get the sewing machine. I also found something Maggie could wear for the wedding."

"What is it with you and this damn wedding? You ain't the bride. Why does it matter to you?"

She shrugged. "Somethin' to look forward to, I guess."

"Nah, that's Rick's line. Makin' those Woodbury assholes happy."

"Be nice."

"They ain't equipped for this life. If any of them were out here with us, they'd be walker food for sure. Surprised they lasted this long." He nudged her with the bottle, and she took a drink. "So what is it?"

"Like you care."

He huffed. "I asked ya, didn't I?"

Shooting him a mock glare, she downed another mouthful of merlot. "I guess after all this time, everything that's happened… I still believe in love." She waved her hand like she'd just finished a magic trick. "There."

"Hmm. Figured it was some girly bullshit."

She punched him in the shoulder a little harder than necessary. "When I see the two of them together, I see hope for the future."

"When I see the two of them together, I see easy targets. You heard what the Governor did to them. What my idiot brother did to them."

She noticed the slight dip in his tone, the sadness. Merle had not been kind, but he hadn't had a chance to atone for his sins either. She tried to distract him with sarcasm. "Yeah, I heard how Glenn took out that walker while his hands were bound together with duct tape. Real easy target." Daryl shook his head, but she pushed on, determined to make him understand. "Love made him _stronger_. He is not the same Glenn he was back at the quarry. She's changed him, made him a better person. He's really stepped up at the prison. People respect him, and he's taking on more responsibilities. I'm not sure he'd be this way without Maggie." He rolled his eyes at her. "Come on, Daryl. Haven't you ever been in love?"

"Don't believe I'm drunk enough to indulge your curiosity," he said, taking another drink of wine.

"Well, I have. Once. Little Jimmy Lewis. I kissed him on the playground, and he cried." She chuckled at the memory. Her ten year old self was so brave.

"Not Ed," Daryl said, more of a statement than a question.

"Not Ed," she replied. "I think I loved him to some degree, a long time ago, but it wasn't that … sweaty-palmed, weak-kneed, take-your-breath-away feeling." She smiled at him. "You know what I mean. The one where you would move mountains if it meant making the other person happy."

He didn't say anything, just continued to nurse the wine bottle in his hand. She wondered what was going on inside his head, wondered what kind of woman it would take to win his heart. Did she need to be a perfect match or the exact opposite? Maybe someone in between, someone who saw him for who he was: a_ man of honor_.

"The wedding's not just for Glenn and Maggie. It's for all of us. Right now we're just surviving, living day to day. If we're ever going to move forward, we've got to believe in love. Otherwise ... what's the point?"

He regarded her unabashedly, and she felt her cheeks burn. As much as she tried to deny it, there was something tantalizing about him. She tried to tell herself that her growing attraction was a misplaced result of his kindness toward her. When they first met, she was a shell of herself - a complacent, abused housewife. Now she was a fighter, damned and determined to make it through this apocalypse alive. She owed a lot of that to Daryl.

But when he looked at her like that, like he could read her mind and wasn't put off by what was inside, she couldn't help but feel a tingle down her spine. Her heart always beat just a little bit faster. They were cut from the same cloth, she and he. A surprising duality that was as natural as light and dark.

He was still looking at her, and she met his gaze evenly. What _was_ the point in living without love anyway?

"Maybe…" she began, speaking to herself more than him, "maybe it's time to stop surviving and start living."

And she kissed him. Sweet and slow, without fear or trepidation.

**End of chapter 3**

******Writers thrive on feedback - and I'd love to hear yours!**


	4. Chapter 4

**I apologize for another short chapter, but it's short and smut, erm, short and sweet. Yeah, that's what I meant.  
**

**Disclaimer: The characters and universe herein were created by Robert Kirkman et al. The series is produced by AMC and other corporations. I don't own anything, and no infringement is intended.**

_Shelter from the Storm  
__Chapter 4__  
_

His lips softened, mouth moving with hers, but otherwise he was motionless, uncertain. Whether it was the wine or the discussion, she _was_ certain that this … whatever this was between them had potential. It had promise. She wasn't going to let the moment pass.

Her hands traveled slowly down his chest, the quilt falling away as she traced a path to his waist. He didn't try to retrieve it as he watched her remove her own quilt and bare herself to him, staring at her shoulders, breasts, stomach. She straddled him, easing her body against his, guiding him inside her. She had never been this bold before, had never taken charge or been the seducer, and he seemed mystified by this side of her as well.

She nuzzled his neck, feeling his pulse hammering against her lips. While his heart may have been beating at double time, her hips moved at half time, an almost leisurely pace. Part of her believed she was dreaming again, and she was soon awaken alone and heated in her cell. Another part expected him to push her away and admonish her for such an intimate violation of their friendship. But neither had happened yet, and she felt no need to race to an inevitable disappointment.

Tempting fate once more, she brought her mouth to his, cupping his head in her hands. A small moan escaped as their tongues lightly grazed against one another, sending a shock of electricity to her core. This was better than her dreams, better than the time she kissed Jimmy Lewis. It was sweaty-palmed, weak-kneed, take-your-breath-away good.

Daryl's fingers unexpectedly gripped her hips, pulling her hard toward him as he let out a small grunt. Breath uneven, teeth digging into her neck, he convulsed once then shuddered and rested his forehead against her shoulder. She readjusted her quilt to cover both of them and nestled herself into his trembling embrace.

* * *

A deafening boom forced Carol upright, heart racing, hands clenched like a boxer. For a brief moment, she was disoriented, unsure of where she was or what was happening.

"Storm's back," came a voice, and she looked at Daryl, who lay on the quilt beside her, awake and alert and naked.

Oh, shit.

"Been ragin' for a while now," he continued as he sat up. "Surprised you just now heard it."

"I was asleep," she replied stupidly, drawing the quilt over her breasts with one hand and rubbing her eyes with the other. Her memories were coming back in droves.

She felt him staring, but she was hesitant to look at him. The bravery from the wine had definitely fizzled out and been replaced by awkwardness and fear. There was nowhere to hide in the tiny room, no way to escape the inescapable conversation that they would most certainly be forced to have.

So she turned her head toward him, expecting to see regret, and opened her mouth to apologize. The words died before they had a chance to be spoken because what she saw was not regret or embarrassment or anger. It was pure, unmistakable desire.

Hooded eyes regarded her hungrily, and he did nothing to hide or diminish his erection. His tongue flitted out to wet his lips, his gaze moving deliberately from her face to her shoulders to the parts that were hidden beneath the quilt.

Oh, _shit_.

She didn't know what to do.

Everything that happened before had felt like a dream – and still did. The wine had caressed her fantasies and brought them into the light. She had never taken the initiative, never been the one controlling the rhythm, never done it for true enjoyment. For all of her assumed expertise, she really was completely ignorant.

And now here they sat, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

Slowly, she leaned back into a supine position on the floor. He perched himself up an elbow, hovering over her. It occurred to her that perhaps he wasn't that experienced either, that perhaps he was just as nervous as she was.

"You can touch me, Daryl."

Her permission was apparently all he needed because the ferocity with which he kissed her took her breath away. Unlike their timid lovemaking before, this was heat and sweat and passion and yearning. He ripped the quilt away and positioned himself between her legs. His hands were all over her body, mouth and tongue working her into a frenzy.

She renounced her earlier assumption as he lifted her hips and thrust deep inside. He was definitely experienced, a redneck Casanova. A giggle bubbled up but turned into a moan. Sex had never been fun and had certainly never brought her pleasure, but this was everything that a trashy romance novel promised it would be. Every masterful stroke brought her closer to the precipice, something she had only dreamed about.

Her fingers dug into his shoulder, trying to maintain the angle between them, and he increased his pace. She knew what was happening, but at the same time she couldn't form any coherent thoughts. This was different. She'd never been to _this place_ except on her own, and even then it hadn't felt like this. She knew that Daryl was looking at her, studying her, but she couldn't focus on his face. She writhed beneath him, hips still suspended by his left palm. Her mind was blank, her body only focused on his rhythm.

She shouted a word or a name or a sound as she convulsed, blood rushing through her body and roaring in her ears. She wrapped both legs around him and held on; each wave was a mixture of pain and pleasure so intense that she wanted to sob. Her body continued to shudder as Daryl came into her, and they collapsed onto the quilt, breaths heaving and hearts racing.

She rolled into his arms, feeling safe and warm and secure. She didn't want to think about tomorrow, didn't want to acknowledge that her feelings had changed, didn't want logic to ruin the moment. For now this was all she had, all she may ever have, and it was enough.

**End of chapter 4  
**

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	5. Chapter 5

**Thanks for all of the lovely reviews! I sincerely appreciate them and try to respond to everybody. Without delay...  
**

**Disclaimer: The characters and universe herein were created by Robert Kirkman et al. The series is produced by AMC and other corporations. I don't own anything, and no infringement is intended.**

_Shelter from the Storm  
__Chapter 5_

"Ungh." Wine hangovers were the worst. Daryl couldn't remember the last time he'd had that much to drink, couldn't even remember how much he _drank_, but he knew it had to be a lot because it felt like his head was in a vice. As long as the Woodbury assholes kept their voices down, he wouldn't have to shoot them with his crossbow.

Hmm. It was quiet, almost too quiet. Someone was always up, shoes tapping on the concrete, and the fact that he couldn't hear anything was disconcerting. He tried to move his arm, but it was pinned down somehow.

Then he remembered. And then he panicked.

He had to get out of here, go somewhere that he could process the night's events without distraction. But her head was using his arm as a pillow, and there was no way to slip away without waking her.

_Fuck!_ Why did she have to come with him on this run? If she had stayed back at the prison, this never would have happened. He would have gotten the supplies and been back in no time, except for the stupid wedding shit. Instead, they got trapped by a herd, chased by a herd, fell down a cliff, sought shelter from a tornado, ended up drunk and naked in a storm cellar, all of which culminated in an impressively short fuck topped off by premature ejaculation.

Why couldn't it have been more like his dream? The one where he took control, where he made her scream his name and where he didn't sit against the wall like a pussy and not even touch her. _This _is why he didn't get close; he was a massive fuck-up. And if she ever spoke to him again, it would be a miracle because a smart woman – and Carol was a smart woman – wouldn't look at him the same way after such a disappointing performance.

"_Fuck_!"

Carol's eyes flew open. "What? What happened?"

He honestly hadn't realized that he had shouted. "I gotta piss." He rolled his eyes at his own excuse, but she backed away so he could get up. Righting himself proved to be a painful experience as his equilibrium tried to return to normal. He picked up one of the empty wine bottles – _Four bottles? They drank four fucking bottles?_ – and stood in a corner to relieve himself.

He could tell she was looking at him, and a glance over his shoulder confirmed it. As if this morning could get any worse. "What are you gawkin' at?"

"Just admirin' the view." She had an impish grin on her face that made him scowl even more.

"What the fuck is so interestin' about my bare ass and scars? Can't a guy get any privacy?"

She chuckled and rolled onto her stomach, eyes on the opposite wall.

Her amusement at the whole situation did nothing but piss him off. He grabbed his clothes and dressed quickly. The sooner they got back to the prison, the better. "Gonna look for walkers. Best hurry up or I'm leavin' without ya." Slinging the crossbow over his shoulder, he trudged up the stairs, out of the cellar, and into the morning air.

Finally, he could breathe again. The sky was a blue-grey, the temperature unusually cool for that time of year. Based on the sun's position, he guessed it was mid-morning. Not as early of a start as he would have liked, but they could still make it back by dark even after loading the truck.

There weren't any walkers nearby. Hopefully they'd run into some later so he could take out his frustration and embarrassment on something other than himself. He felt edgy and anxious. The trip back to the prison was not one he was looking forward to.

His feet sank into the grass, which had been saturated by the massive amounts of rainfall the night before. He stepped away from the cellar doors before he became stuck and walked toward the front of the house.

Or what was left of it.

The two story house was now one story, the entire upstairs having blown away with the storm. The balusters that had lined the porch now stuck haphazardly out of the mud in the yard. He didn't see the rocking chair at all. He continued to circle the house. The wall where the kitchen had been was torn away, counters and plumbing exposed to the outside. The tornado had obviously traveled right over them; it had even cut a wide path through the yard, removing grass and uprooting trees.

"Oh, my God." Carol stood beside him, hand over her mouth.

She was going to be pissed about the sewing machine.

"The house. The sewing machine…"

He snorted. "Come on. Let's see if the truck is still there."

* * *

The trek back to Livingston was made in silence. Carol was concerned about his demeanor, the way he got mad at the mud for sticking to his boots. She had tried to lighten the mood, but he wouldn't respond to her meager attempts at humor. When she asked a question, he would respond with a grunt or nothing at all. He may not be talking to her, but his silence was louder than his voice.

Something had happened – and she knew that something had been her.

Daryl had always been fiercely protective of his heart, so she knew that he wasn't going to start reciting poetry or professing his love after their night together. But did he have to be so damn mean? Every look in her direction was a glare, and when she tripped over a rock, he didn't even offer to help her up.

She should have expected this. She should have ignored her attraction, ignored the wine's effect on her confidence, and left him alone. But she was tired of always doing what she was supposed to do, tired of taking everyone else's feelings into consideration but never her own. Why should she be destined to sit on the sidelines while everyone else took control? She wasn't the same person she was when they first met, yet she was stuck in the same role she'd always played. They didn't see her for anything other than a mousy housewife.

She _hated_ that they relied so much on their first impression of her.

Something clicked, a simple realization that she hadn't considered before. _That's_ why Daryl was so angry. In his mind, he'd made a terrible first impression – not lasting as long as he should, not paying attention to her, whatever silly notion he had derived. He probably felt like she was laughing at him. She shook her head; he should know her better than that.

But why was he so hell-bent on beating himself up over the first time when the second time had been amazing?

After what felt like hours, they finally reached the main street through town. Except there was no town. And no truck.

"_Are you fucking kidding me_?" Daryl yelled.

Carol tuned out the rest of his expletive-filled rant as she looked around. A Southern magnolia that had to be hundreds of years old had been uprooted and tossed on its side, blocked the gravel road to the east. At least they weren't going that way. Aside from that, there was nothing. Livingston had been completely demolished.

Something caught her attention, glimmering in the sun through the mass of magnolia branches, and she unsheathed her knife before walking that direction. It wasn't a walker; Daryl's outburst would have drawn its attention long ago. The tree's crown was probably forty feet across, but enough leaves had blown off in the storm that she could see through the branches fairly easily.

She spread a few limbs apart to get a better view of what had caught her eye. When she finally made out what it was, she couldn't help but laugh.

"Hey, Daryl!"

"You find somethin'?" he asked, jogging over to her, his anger shifting to hope.

"Our truck." She pushed through the crown on her way to the trunk.

"Hey!" He yanked her back before she could continue. "What the hell are you doing?"

"You got a better way to get over there?"

"Walk around it?" he suggested sarcastically.

"Yeah – and while you're still looking for the end of this thing, I'll be on the other side starting the motor. Maybe I'll leave _you_ behind."

The look on his face was one of shock and disconcertion; she would have smiled if she hadn't been so irritated with him. "Fine," he growled. "Get yourself killed. I don't care."

"You _do _care," she pointed out as she slipped around some limbs, trying to climb her way to the trunk of the tree. "And that's the problem."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean? Carol!" She didn't respond, so he started after her. His foot caught on a branch, and he fell forward, a mass of leaves whacking him in the face. "Motherfucker."

Carol held out a hand to help him around the offending branch. "Oh, come on. I bet you've climbed hundreds of trees."

"They're usually goin' the other direction."

Unable to stay mad at him for any real length of time, she felt herself grinning. "Well, don't worry. I won't tell anybody." A pained look flickered across his face. "Is that it?" she asked softly. "You think I'm gonna tell people what happened in the cellar?"

He scowled but didn't meet her eyes, reaching for a nearby limb and pulling himself over another branch.

"Dammit, Daryl, talk to me." She scrambled after him, grabbing his arm to prevent him from continuing. "I'm not mad at you, and I sure as hell wasn't disappointed."

"Yeah, right," he muttered, trying to walk again, but she wouldn't let go, her eyes pleading with him. "Ain't good at that kind of thing."

"What, talkin'?"

He shook his head, and she realized she must have misinterpreted what he was trying to say. "No, it- That was- I ain't- _Fuck_!" He grabbed her knife and tried slicing through the leaves that were in his face. It was ineffective and only served to anger him further. "I ain't never done that before! Ya happy now? Fuck!" He stormed off, weapon swinging wildly at the tree.

Out of all of the things he could have said, that really wasn't what she expected to come out of his mouth. She stared at his retreating form for a moment before hurrying after him. "Well, neither have I, so we're even."

"Bullshit."

"I'm serious."

"What are you, the Virgin Mary?"

"Oh, no, I've done _that_. But I've never…" She blushed. Usually, she found the right words, but this time she was at a loss. One of her most intimate confessions to the only man she felt would understand – and she couldn't even say it. "I've never experienced ... that. Only by myself. Never with Ed, never with anyone. Until you."

He stopped and stared at her. She forced herself to meet his gaze. Finally, he was beginning to understand. His muscles relaxed, his jaw went slack. She could see the wheels turning. They weren't as different as he thought. But his glare returned almost immediately, fists clenched at his sides, and her heart sank.

_Oh no – now what?_

"I really fucking hate your husband."

Relieved, she let out a chuckle. "You and me both."

He returned the knife to her in an act of solidarity. "Let's get out of here."

* * *

_It hadn't been a dream after all._

Daryl could barely believe it himself, but Carol's confession made it as real as it could be. He wasn't as big of a fuck up as he thought. He felt ridiculous, particularly now that he was doing some mental happy dance. He'd never drank so much that he mistook reality for a dream before – and with reality being that much better, he doubted he ever would again.

Things were finally falling into place. Their truck was in pristine condition despite being blown down the road and almost crushed by a tree, and they were able to find a passable route that took them to the farmhouse. There, they loaded up the cargo bed, all the way to the top of the truck cap, with the entire contents of the storm cellar.

After a quick lunch of beef jerky and fruit cocktail, they made their way back to the prison. The full inventory from the cellar was more impressive than their cursory examination revealed the night before, and Carol chattered about it for a good thirty minutes. He didn't really mind. It was nice to see her genuinely excited about something.

His attention drifted in and out as he drove, finally allowing himself to entertain thoughts about the future. Was she right about Glenn and Maggie, that they were paving the way out of hell for everyone? Could the prison be a realistic home for infants and toddlers while couples began repopulating the species? Judith was the youngest of the children, but it wouldn't be long until people started pairing off and making more.

Shit, did Carol expect that of him? He cast a sidelong glance at her. She hadn't said anything about turning their little underground rendezvous into something more permanent. She hadn't said anything against it either. Then again, he had been pretty shitty toward her all day. Maybe she hadn't said anything because she was worried he'd blow up at her again.

They passed slowly through a small town, and Carol sat up in her seat. "Daryl, stop."

He did as he was instructed, killing the engine. He looked around for any signs of danger, ready to act at a moment's notice, but didn't see anything.

"Yes, this is it." She opened the door and hopped out.

"Shit." He grabbed his crossbow and ran after her. "Where are you going?"

"Look." She pointed at the building in front of them. "Craft store. I can get some stuff to make a bouquet for Maggie."

He was already shaking his head. "No, no, no. You remember what happened the last time we tried to get supplies for this weddin'."

"Yeah, we found a cellar full of food." She stuck out her lower lip. "Come on, Daryl. Five minutes, I promise."

He felt his resolve wavering. She had certainly put up with more than five minutes of his bad attitude; he owed her at least that long to supply the wedding with flowers. "Fine."

She practically skipped to the store but stopped in the doorway, knife in hand, to listen for any walkers. Hearing nothing, she grabbed a shopping basket and walked past the checkout lanes to the large section of silk flowers. Every color was at her disposal, and she started selecting a few from the bucket of white blooms.

He stood near the counter and watched her. They lived in a time of danger, and here she was picking flowers. This time yesterday, he would have heaved several sighs and called her careful selection a waste of time. But now … now they both needed this. A brief reprieve, a return to something simple in a world that was anything but. Just a girl picking flowers and a boy admiring her from afar.

_And it hadn't been a dream after all._

What was he going to do when they got back to the prison? He wasn't really made for a committed relationship, content to go where the wind took him, but it didn't seem right to let other men have a chance with her either. Frankly, he didn't want to see her with anyone else, not after what had happened between them. And if he was being _really_ honest, he didn't want to see her with anyone else, period. Unless it was him, a mental admission that was not easily made. But for that to happen, he'd have to convince her that he was worth the effort.

She returned to his side with a basket full of flowers and some spools of ribbon and tulle. "Since Maggie doesn't have a veil, I was thinking I could make one for her. We've still got some wire back at the prison, don't we? The one we used for the coops?"

"Probably." He fished out a bundle of blue hydrangea from her selection, rubbing a calloused thumb along the silken petals.

"I know, don't tell me. It's stupid."

"No, it … it kinda matches the color of your eyes."

The instant the words came out of his mouth, he desperately wanted to swallow them back down. Since when did he know the exact color of her eyes, and what the hell was he doing telling her that he did? There was no way to backpedal from this one.

He didn't have to. Carol flung her arms around his neck and kissed him. He stumbled into the counter, surprised by her sudden action. He knew _what_ was happening but not entirely sure _why_. He had never pegged her as one of those women who fell for a corny line. Maybe it was her way for forgiving him for being an asshole all day. Obviously he didn't know all of her quirks, but something told him he was going to enjoy finding them out.

He spun around and hoisted her onto the counter, positioning himself between her thighs. She pulled her tank top over her head, and he buried his face between her breasts, steeling himself as she ran her fingers across his scalp. Their last two encounters had been fast paced; he just needed to take it slow and focus. Make it good for her, show her that he's serious.

But then she wrapped her legs around him and squeezed, and there was _no way_ he was going to be able to take it slow. There'd be time for that later. There was a soft thump behind him as she dropped her basket of flowers, but he was too focused on removing his pants to give it any attention. Her moaning was almost a distraction; he was going as fast as he could! His fingers fumbled with the button, but he felt a surge of victory when it finally unhooked.

Carol leaned hard against him, and he felt himself start to fall. He tried righting her, but she kept pushing, and he lost his balance. His body bumped into a solid form behind him as Carol's knife landed a few inches from the side of his cheek. A splatter of fluid burst onto his face, and he was momentarily stunned. She finally came back into focus, droplets of blood on her cheek, eyes wide and glistening, and he realized what had just happened.

He had almost been bitten by a walker.

**End of chapter 5  
**

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	6. Chapter 6

**Here it is - the final installment! The reviews have been fabulous, so thank you very much for reading and taking the time to respond. They make me smile!  
**

**Disclaimer: The characters and universe herein were created by Robert Kirkman et al. The series is produced by AMC and other corporations. I don't own anything, and no infringement is intended.**

_Shelter from the Storm  
__Chapter _6

Search the entire premises before proceeding.

Take your time.

Stay alert.

Listen.

Pay attention to your surroundings.

Remain vigilant.

Never let your guard down.

Daryl knew the drill, knew it better than most. He and Rick had taught it to nearly everyone at the prison, a mixture of police procedure and old fashioned common sense. If you want to survive, you follow the rules. Ignore the rules, and you die.

He hadn't said a word to Carol in over an hour, hadn't even looked at her in the passenger seat. He had ignored the rules, thinking with his dick instead of his head. Hadn't searched the whole store. Hadn't been paying attention to his surroundings.

_Easy fucking target._

It was exactly like he had told her back in the cellar, but he'd been taken by her belief that _love _made someone stronger. Total, utter bullshit. Love made you stupid. Love made you immune to rational thinking. Love made you die.

"I'm sorry."

Her voice was barely audible above the roar of the engine, but it was a sound that he would recognize no matter what. He looked at her quickly, noted her red rimmed eyes. Aw, shit. It would be so easy to be mad at her, to blame her for every damn thing that had happened to them in the last 24 hours. All he had to say was _fuck you_, and it'd be over. Done. Finished.

But it wasn't her fault. All she had wanted to do was care about him. His parents, his brother, Rick, the group at the prison. None of them had ever cared about him the way she did. No one had ever believed in him the way she did. She was the only good thing he'd ever had in his life.

He didn't want it to be over, but he couldn't let it continue.

Turning the truck onto a familiar road, he guessed they were within ten minutes of reaching the prison. If they were going to have this talk, it would have to be now.

He licked his lips while considering a reply. There were a lot of things he could say to her apology. Unfortunately, he didn't know which of them to choose. He finally settled on, "Sorry for what?"

"For not making sure the whole store was safe."

He sighed. It wasn't his plan to make her feel guilty; she was the one who had saved his life, not the other way around. "Don't go blamin' yourself for that. I was supposed to be lookin' for walkers."

"You almost got bit," she said quietly. "I never would have forgiven myself."

His desire to comfort her was so overwhelming, he almost changed his mind about everything. The wall he had built around his heart crumbled every time he looked into her eyes. If he didn't say something now, it would collapse, and he would be forced to confront his feelings for her. He needed to regain his self-control, needed to find some brick and rebuild the wall. Without that protection, everyone would know he was a failure.

_Especially her._

"You know we can't make this work."

"You mean _you_ can't make this work."

"It wouldn't last." _Because I'd fuck it up_.

She barked out a derisive laugh. "I knew you were going to say that."

"Fuck, Carol. What did you think was gonna happen? We were gonna waltz into the prison hand in hand and have a double wedding with Glenn and Maggie?"

"You would _never_ waltz."

"This a fuckin' _joke_ to you? Well, I ain't laughin'."

She took a breath, eyes forward, voice steady. "We made a mistake, Daryl."

"No shit."

"But that's no reason to bury your head back in the sand and pretend like nothing happened between us!"

"I never said it didn't happen; I said it_ can't happen again_!"

There was a long pause before she spoke again. And when she did, every word was like a knife digging further into his body, grating at the bone, tearing him apart. "Why are you doing this?"

"It ain't for me; it's for you." He couldn't bear to look at her; she never hid her feelings from him, and he was afraid of what he'd find if he allowed himself to meet her gaze. "I can't keep you safe anymore."

"I can take care of myself."

"Dammit, Carol, it's got nothin' to do with you!" he yelled, punctuating his sentence with a fist to the steering wheel.

The fence to the prison was in sight, and he saw a couple of residents move to open the gate. He needed to get away, to nurse his wounded heart in peace. Why couldn't she understand that this was the best option? The hardest decisions were always the right ones.

He drove up to the loading dock, and Carol was out of the truck before he even put it in park. She slammed the door and, almost as an afterthought, addressed him through the open passenger window. "There was something there, Daryl. I know you felt it too. Something good. Something worth living for."

The words rang in his ears, and he felt all of the fight draining from him, replaced by memories and regret.

"But you'll never admit it, will you? You'll tuck your tail and run, pretend it never happened, go back to being alone. And that's fine for you – but what about me?"

He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. "I can't be the man you want me to be."

She gave him a small shrug as she walked away. "Maybe you already are."

His gaze dropped as he tried to process their conversation. Something on the floor caught his attention; it was the blue hydrangea from the craft store. He picked it up carefully, stared at it, wondered if it was some kind of sign. He saw Carol embrace Maggie at the loading bay doors and show her the basket of flowers. Maggie clapped her hands excitedly and hugged her again.

The driver's side door opened, and Rick stood on the other side. "Glad you made it back. We were ready send out a search party."

Daryl climbed out, tucking the flower out of sight. "We were all right."

"I don't know about you, but we had a big storm last night. Lightning, hail, the whole nine." They rounded the truck, and Daryl lowered the tailgate, revealing their haul. Rick beamed, picking up a ten pound bag of rice. He handed it to a nearby resident, who passed it to another, creating a chain to unload the truck bed.

"We found this in a storm cellar at a farmhouse," he explained. "Got caught in a tornado."

"Looks like you got lucky too."

Daryl froze. "What?"

Rick gestured to the food but squinted at him curiously. "Why, what did you think I meant?"

Carol grabbed two jugs of water, nodding a hello to Rick, but when her eyes met Daryl's, her expression went dark. Daryl watched her departing form, struggling to keep any emotion out of his voice. "We were just lucky to find the shelter."

"Sounds like it was one hell of a storm."

"It was incredible," he mumbled, the double meaning not lost on him. He couldn't take his eyes off of Carol, but she seemed content to ignore him. He'd made the wrong choice, he realized that – but it was too late to fix it. _Shit_, he thought. Now he was sure she hated him.

As she walked away, listening to the final exchange between Daryl and Rick, Carol failed to suppress a misty smile. _Shit_, she thought. Now she was sure she loved him.

**End  
**

**Or is it? Reviews fuel sequels. Thank you for reading!**


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